


Threnody for a Sparrow

by likeatumbleweed



Series: The Brave and Happy Life of Loki and Sigyn [11]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, pregnancy loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeatumbleweed/pseuds/likeatumbleweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a lesson Loki has never wanted to learn...there are some broken things that cannot be fixed, no matter how badly you wish otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threnody for a Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> A threnody is a poem, speech, or lamentation, especially for the dead. In the epilogue of Illusion, it was briefly mentioned that Sigyn miscarried twins between Eidr and Unna. This is an expansion of that event and its immediate aftermath.

_The bird is so close Loki can almost touch it. He stretches his hand out a little further, hoping the tiny creature can see the breadcrumbs he’s holding._

_“It’s all right,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”_

_Loki has worked for weeks to get this particular bird to eat from his hand, sneaking to the courtyard between his history and language lessons with leftover bread he saves from his breakfast. He knows it’s the same one every time; unlike the others in its flock, it has a single stark white feather amongst the dull brown ones on its tail. Loki wonders if it feels different from the other birds, if maybe this tiny creature understands how he himself feels in a way none of the other children in Asgard ever could. Perhaps that’s why it trusts him._

_It hops a few steps closer on the stone wall where Loki is sitting, and quickly darts its head out to snatch a bite from his palm. When he doesn’t try to grab it, it hesitates and moves back a bit, considering its good fortune before moving closer once more –_

_THWACK!_

_The bird disappears just as riotous laughter erupts nearby. “Yes! I got it!” shouts Thor as he comes from behind a shrub a short distance away, three of his awful toady friends at his heel._

_It’s over so quickly it takes a second for Loki to realize what’s happened. On the ground on the other side of the wall is his white-feathered bird, completely motionless, its head crushed and blood slowly oozing from its beak. There is a stone in the dirt near its body; when he looks back at Thor, he is tucking a slingshot into his waistband._

_The combined rush of disbelief and anger in Loki’s heart almost makes him sick. “What did you do?!” he screams, throwing himself from the wall to kneel next to the bird._

_“The other birds are too quick,” says Thor, leaning over the wall to look down at his brother. “But you got that one to sit still long enough. I needed the practice.” His friends are just behind, all sneering at Loki where the older prince can’t see them._

_Loki wants to grab fistfuls of dirt and throw it in their faces, but instead he turns his attention back to the bird, picking it up as gently as possible and clutching it to his chest. He glares at Thor, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m telling Mother,” he says between clenched teeth, and before the older prince can answer, Loki is on his feet, scrabbling over the wall and taking off in the direction of the queen’s garden._

_His mother is the smartest person he knows; she will be able to help. She always does._

_Thor is not far behind him, and though shorter than Loki by at least a couple of inches, he is rapidly closing the distance between them. Loki holds his precious cargo close and moves faster._

_“Mother!” he shouts as he plows through the garden gates. “Mother, I need you!”_

_She is sitting at a small table beneath the shade of an apple tree, looking over papers with her handmaiden, a weasel-faced young woman whom Loki despises. He’s never liked any of her handmaidens; none of them ever look at him the way they look at Thor, in deference and open adoration._

_His mother meets him halfway, her brow creased with worry. “What is it, darling? What’s happened?”_

_He looks up at her and holds the bird out in his shaking hands. “Thor killed my bird.”_

_Before she can reply, Thor is there, breathlessly defending himself. “I thought he was just playing with it, Mother! How was I supposed to know he’d care if anything happened to it?”_

_Loki whirls to face him, pulling the bird close one again. “You must have seen me trying to feed it! I’ve been trying for weeks –”_

_Thor rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation. “It’s just a dumb bird, Loki! There’s loads of them in the courtyard –”_

_“Not like this one!”_

_“What’s so special about that one, anyway?”_

_“It was mine!” Loki looks down at it, and a tear drips from his face and onto its wing. “This one was mine….” Now that the crying has started, he can no longer rein it in, and his cheeks flush in embarrassment. It’s just one more thing for Thor and his idiot friends to poke fun at, one more thing to mercilessly use against him._

_“I don’t see your name on it, Loki –”_

_“Thor,” interrupts Frigga, her voice stern and unforgiving. “Go to your chambers this instant. You’re not to leave them again until supper, is that understood?”_

_“Yes, Mother.” Abashed, Thor turns to leave. “It was just a bird,” he says under his breath as he goes._

_Loki waits until the gates to the garden shut behind his brother before he speaks again. “It’s my fault, Mother. It trusted me, and now it’s dead.”_

_“You mustn’t blame yourself, Loki,” she says gently. “What your brother did was inexcusable, but you can rest easy knowing the last thing this bird experienced in its life was your kindness.”_

_“But you can bring it back, can’t you, Mother? You know a healing spell, right?”_

_She puts her hand over Loki’s and strokes her thumb across his knuckles; her smile is sad in a way he’s never seen before. “I’m so sorry, my sweet boy,” she says. “If I could bring it back I would. But sadly, there are some things even the most powerful spell cannot fix.”_

_It isn’t what Loki was hoping to hear, and the tears fall even harder. Blessedly, his mother does not chastise him for his emotional outburst, not the way his father would. She just holds him in her arms, rubbing his back and allowing him to cry until he is spent._

_Once he is calm, she asks if he wants to bury the bird in her garden, under her favorite tree. “I have just the spot for it,” she says. “We can even mark its grave so you can visit it if you like.”_

_She helps him dig the hole herself. Just before he lowers the bird into it, she plucks the white feather from its tail. “For you to keep,” she says. “So you can remember.”_

_He shakes his head. “I don’t want to remember.”_

_“I understand, darling. More than you know.”_

_She brushes his hair back from his face with her gentle hand, and even in his sadness, Loki is convinced he will never love another person in all the Nine Realms as much as he loves his mother._

* * *

The sun has barely risen, and already there is someone knocking on the door to Thor’s chambers. If history has proven anything in his relatively short time as Asgard’s king, it’s that nothing good ever comes from such early morning interruptions.

His most trusted King’s Guard, a sturdy man by the name of Bragi, is stationed directly outside in the corridor. Just behind the man’s imposing figure cringes a visibly distressed housemaid.

“My liege,” Bragi says with an apologetic nod. “Pardon the intrusion, but the girl is quite insistent on speaking with you –”

“Y-Your Majesty, forgive me,” interrupts the maid, her eyes downcast. “Something terrible has happened. I wasn’t sure where else to go –”

Thor steps past Bragi with a look of reassurance, and lowers himself enough to put his eyes at the young girl’s level. “What’s your name?” he asks gently, trying to project an air of calmness to settle her nerves. After a moment, it seems to work.

She keeps her chin to her chest but raises her eyes to his. “Gisla.”

“All right Gisla, take a deep breath,” he says, doing exactly that himself so she will be compelled to imitate him. “Now tell me…what matter is so urgent that it brings you to my chambers at this hour?”

“It’s Prince Loki, Sire, in the corridor. He’s screaming about something…I’ve never seen him so upset –”

Thor’s heart drops. So many years have passed since the trouble on Midgard, years of renewed trust and companionship between him and Loki, but the worry Thor carries for his little brother’s health and happiness will never fully abate. “Is he hurt?” he asks sharply, the cracking in his voice unintentionally revealing too much of his fear.

“I’m not sure. I don’t believe so –“

“What do you mean you ‘don’t believe so?’” Impatience is creeping in, and he has to make a concerted effort to tamp it down.

“I was preparing for my duties when he rushed past me with the healer, headed for his chambers. I thought I saw blood on his leg, but he didn’t look injured to me.”

Thor mouth goes bone dry, and he stands up to his full height in an instant. He has to suppress a sudden urge to throttle the poor girl for not mentioning this first. “ _Blood?_ Are you positive?”

“Yes. The two of them went into his chambers together, but she pushed him back into the corridor not a minute later. H-he was _screaming_ …” She cringes from the memory. “I didn’t want to intrude; I thought it best to come get you.”

“And I’m most thankful you have. I’ll see to him.” He starts to dismiss her but hesitates. “Princess Sigyn. Did you see her as well?”

“No, Sire.”

He nods his thanks. 

The servant curtseys quickly on shaky legs and leaves as fast as they can carry her.

Sif has approached him almost silently, their infant son Magni cradled to her chest. “The twins,” she says. It isn’t a question.

Thor’s heart is pounding as he gently strokes his son’s head. “It isn’t yet time, is it?”

“No,” says Sif, her voice cautious. “Not for another four months.”

“She just came from Midgard. You don’t think –?”

“We should go to him,” she interjects, passing Magni off to the waiting nursemaid and hurrying off to collect her robe. It is not the answer Thor wants.

* * *

Thor can hear Loki’s frantic pacing and angry muttering long before they see him, and the look on Sif’s face when she glances at him speaks volumes about her own concerns. Thor can pick out a few words and phrases in Loki’s tirade – _Midgardians_ and _make them pay_ being chief among them. But even this does not adequately prepare him for the sight that awaits them.

Loki’s long hair is a disheveled mess, partially tied back in a halfhearted attempt to tame it. His eyes are wild and his face is streaked with tears. His robe is haphazardly thrown on over his sleeping pants, which to Thor’s horror, are indeed soaked through with blood on one leg. As they get closer, Thor can see blood on Loki’s hands as well. To make matters worse, Loki looks to be losing control of his own appearance; he is flickering halfway between his Aesir mask and his true form, his skin a sickly blue-grey and his eyes red-rimmed from more than just crying.

Thor first thinks someone has broken in and done something to hurt Sigyn, but he dismisses the idea almost immediately. An intruder would never have made it within breathing distance of her without Loki noticing; the fact that there isn’t anyone in Loki’s custody – or even worse, a body to be removed – makes this possibility remote at best.

The insidious and unwelcome thought then creeps into Thor’s head that it was no intruder, but rather Loki himself who has hurt her – a notion he regrets at once. He’s seen Loki’s capacity for destruction up close – and he’s been the target of emotional manipulation and physical damage by Loki’s hand more times than he would care to remember. But if Thor is confident of anything at all about his younger brother, it’s that Loki would face certain death before he would allow even a single instant of pain or misery for his beloved wife.

Loki turns to them as they approach, looking through them as if they are no more than specters. “Sif,” he says desperately, grabbing her arm with a decided lack of delicacy and pulling her toward his chamber doors.

Thor starts to bristle at his wife’s harsh treatment, but she waves him off.

“Sit with her,” says Loki, still not looking at Sif directly. “I will not have her suffer alone if I am to be banished from my own chambers.”

Sif catches Thor’s eye, silently seeking assurance that he will look after his brother. Thor nods to her, and she slips into the room, hurriedly shutting the door before the room’s activities can be revealed to anyone outside of it.

Loki reaches out and runs his trembling hand over the gilt carvings that make up the heavy surface of his chamber doors, his shaking and bloodstained fingers lingering on each crest and valley as tenderly as a lover’s would. He stops on a particularly detailed portion of a serpent’s head and snaps it off, dropping it to the floor without even a cursory glance. If he can’t open the doors, maybe he can break through them instead.

Thor interrupts before Loki can destroy any more of the motif. “Brother,” he says, and Loki flinches as if he’s been slapped. “Brother, what’s happened?” he continues patiently.

Loki stays silent, and is quiet for so long Thor is convinced he isn’t going to answer; when he finally does, it is with more sorrow than Thor has ever heard in his long life.

“The universe has demanded payment for my every transgression,” he says, looking at Thor as though just comprehending he’s there. “The babies. They’re dead, and it’s my fault.”

Unbidden, the image of Magni’s face comes to Thor’s mind, and he feels sick. “It’s not your fault, Loki,” he says. So many others would see the blood and take it as evidence of Loki’s guilt without question; but none of them understand him the way Thor does. 

Loki’s lips peel back from his teeth in a grimace. “Isn’t it? I cannot protect _anything_ I love. Why would Sigyn be any different?”

Thor doesn’t know what to say, and so he stands there mutely and allows Loki to continue to rave at the injustices of his circumstances.

“If only she’d had the sense not to marry a _monster_ , this wouldn’t have happened,” says Loki as he paces. “If only falling from the Bifrost had _killed_ me, this wouldn’t have happened. If only _I_ had died as an infant,” he says, hitting his chest with his fist, “just as I was meant to…this wouldn’t have happened.”

Thor shakes his head and puts a heavy hand on Loki’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “You weren’t meant to die, brother. You have a purpose –”

Loki bats his hand away. “And what purpose is that, Thor? To bring death and destruction to everything I touch? What _purpose_ could that possibly serve?”

“You are a father to two beautiful boys, husband to a woman who loves you more than her own life. You have no greater purpose than that.”

“And what has loving me ever done for _her_?” He jabs his finger in the direction of his chamber doors just as Sigyn lets out an anguished cry – brief, but painful.

It is a brutal confirmation of what’s happening in Loki’s chambers, the sound of a mother’s loss, a sound Thor hopes never to hear again in his lifetime. 

Loki stares at the door, his breath coming in short bursts; he dives for the handle, but Thor stops him by throwing himself between Loki and the door. “No, brother. You don’t need to see –”

“Get out of my way!”

Loki is nearly frothing at the mouth with rage and anguish; uncontrolled bursts of magic are emanating from him, enough to cause hairline fractures in the floor and walls in his immediate vicinity. But Thor digs his heels in and stands his ground, putting his arms around his brother and holding him in place until he eventually stops struggling and goes limp. After a moment, Loki folds into himself, sliding down through Thor’s embrace and to the floor, sobbing so hard he’s shaking. Thor’s never seen anything remotely like it in their long history together; it’s devastating to watch. 

Once Loki is relatively calm, Thor moves him until he is sitting with his back against the wall. Thor’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to the dark and drying blood on Loki’s leg; he moves the corner of Loki’s robe to cover it up.

A small group of palace workers is cowering at the end of the corridor, trying not to be intrusive but watching with intense curiosity. Thor calls out to them, “Bring me a basin of water and some towels. And be quick about it!”

One of the housemaids dashes off, returning swiftly with the requested items. She never takes her eyes off Loki as she approaches them, as though she expects him to strike her dead the instant she gets close enough. She sets the basin down and retreats before Thor can thank her.

Loki is still staring at his chamber doors in a stupor; he doesn’t react at all when Thor takes one of his hands and dips it into the water. Thor scrubs at it with one of the washcloths to remove the blood, taking care to not miss any space between Loki’s fingers, until the water turns pink and cloudy. Thor has always envied Loki’s hands; whether holding one of his children with care or conjuring weapons to fell an enemy, there is an undefinable elegance to them that he has never felt able to replicate in his own. He thinks he should have told his brother this before now….thinks he should have told him a great _many_ things before now.

Loki speaks only when Thor moves to wash his other hand. His voice is soft, his eyes still not focused on anything in particular. “Midgard. They insist Sigyn is safe when she travels there, that they adore her, but she is still _my_ wife. The humans’ hatred for me is great enough; they wouldn’t think twice of killing two innocent babies to destroy me.”

“My friends would never let that happen.”

Loki blinks at the word ‘friends’ and fixes Thor with a withering stare. He opens his mouth to say something – likely vulgar and unpleasant – but before he can get a word out, the clicking of the door catches his attention and he scrambles to his feet. The healer barely manages to avoid being knocked aside as he rushes past her.

Just beyond the door is Sif; she has clearly been crying, something Thor has only ever seen her do a handful of times, and then only in extreme circumstances. She merely shakes her head, and he pulls her to him.

“Sigyn,” he whispers into her hair. “I-is she –?”

“She’s fine. Well…she will be. Eventually.”

Thor has to see for himself. Pushing the door wider, he enters the room as quietly as possible. Loki and Sigyn’s bed is directly in his line of sight; stripped of every bit of its linens and furs, it appears even more massive and forbidding than usual. Thor has long been inured to the sight of blood, but seeing it on the bare mattress – knowing what it signifies – is more difficult than he expected it to be.

Sigyn has been moved to the sofa in front of the fire. Loki is kneeling beside her, and as Thor watches, Loki curls his arms around her shoulders and pulls her to his chest without an ounce of self-consciousness, cradling her as gently as he would a delicate glass sculpture. This is the side of Loki that only his most trusted family members ever get to see, and even those select few see it rarely. Thor does not take lightly the privilege of counting himself in that group, of being witness to such vulnerability in someone who hates to appear weak.    

The healer approaches him. “Your Majesty,” she says, keeping her voice low, “my condolences to your family. My skills are vast, but the situation was far past any hope of reversal when I arrived.”

“She returned from Midgard just yesterday. The Bifrost…could it have caused this?”

“I don’t believe it did. Ambassador Aradottir has traveled off-realm many times in this pregnancy and the last without incident.”

“I must know…was this a deliberate act? Perhaps someone on Midgard wishing to do her harm?” Merely asking feels like a betrayal of his human friends, but Thor cannot help but question the circumstances.

“No, Your Majesty,” says the healer. “There’s not always a simple explanation for these things. But rest assured, whatever the cause, I have no reason to believe this was anything other than a terrible coincidence.”

Thor knows he should feel relieved, but in some ways this is worse. Having no one and nothing to blame – being forced to accept it as something that could not have been predicted or prevented – makes him feel helpless. But for all the discomfort he feels, he cannot imagine what Loki and Sigyn must be experiencing.

“Thor, we should go,” says Sif. “They need some privacy.”

“Yes, of course.” He thanks the healer once again for her help and prepares to leave. Before he can get to the door, there is a strong hand gripping his shoulder.

“Brother,” says Loki, “I need a moment of your time.”

“I’ll go on ahead,” says Sif. She reaches for Loki’s hand, and for once he allows her the small familiarity. “I’m so very sorry,” she says. “I wish I could’ve done more.”

“It was enough. Whatever difficulties you and I might have with one another, Sigyn need not suffer because of them. You helped her when I could not, and for that, I will be forever in your debt.”

“Be a comfort to her now, and you can consider the debt paid.” She squeezes his hand before letting it go. “With your consent, I would go to your mother to tell her. She should hear it from one of us, not a member of the palace staff.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She nods and takes her leave. Thor turns back to Loki as soon as the door is shut, and waits for him to talk. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“I insist you go to Midgard,” Loki says, and the ruthless tone of his voice is unmistakable. “Find out if they are responsible, and if they are, bring the perpetrators to me.”

“The healer,” Thor says lowly, “she said they were not the cause –”

“I don’t care what she said. If you hold any love for me in your heart, you will do this.”

Thor knows it is pointless to try and dissuade Loki from his request, and he gives a heavy sigh. “I will go….in three days’ time. They were my family, too. I would see them buried first."

* * *

Sigyn is wearing black, and Loki hates it.

The dress itself is not the problem, even if the cut of it does not adequately disguise the continued swell of her belly. She still _looks_ pregnant; but as painful as that is, it is not what Loki hates.

The complete lack of color in the fabric reduces her to a mere shadow, washes her out, makes her look chalky and lifeless and as dead as… _as dead as_ …

He doesn’t finish the thought. 

He keeps his eyes on her as she stands on the dock, Ari and Eiðr on either side of her, each of her hands grasping one of theirs. He doesn’t want to look away, doesn’t want to see the tiny boat as it slips out into the water, built from the wood that had, until two days prior, formed the frame of their bed. The bed that was his alone for so much of his life, where he and Sigyn spent countless nights learning each other’s most intimate physical and emotional secrets, where Ari was conceived, where Eiðr was born…

…where these babies died.

Twin boys, the healer had said, physically perfect in every way…but their combined energies had stolen too much of their mother’s. Sigyn’s body could not sustain them, these jotun intruders, and in the end, something had to give. Perhaps they could sense the toll they were exacting, Loki thinks, and chose to sacrifice themselves rather than make their father a widower. It brings him a perverse sort of comfort, to think his children capable of such nobility.

Sigyn had insisted that they be given names, and though Loki’s first instinct had been to protest (foolishly thinking the mourning would be less painful without them) he hadn’t fought her on the point. The one with black hair they had named Narfi, and his fairer-haired brother Váli. Sigyn had embroidered their names herself onto the funeral shrouds in tiny runes, taking care to ensure each of them received the correct one. “They are princes of Asgard,” she’d said. “They deserve to be welcomed into Valhalla by their proper names.”

An errant stitch of the needle had pricked her finger while she labored, leaving spots of blood where she touched the fabric. The women who had been sent to help with the funeral preparations had offered to procure fresh shrouds, but Sigyn had refused. “They were born from my blood, so they will be buried with my blood,” she’d said. “I want the Valkyries to know how much it hurt for us to lose them.”

A tear slips down Sigyn’s cheek as Loki watches, yet another in an endless line that has been falling for two days now. He desperately wants to reach for her and wipe it away, to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he cannot bring himself to move. His composure is tenuous at best, and he is afraid that if he moves, he will be compelled to throw himself into the water as well. So he stays put, and he watches her.

To his left he hears the crackle of a flame, the creak of a bowstring, the rush of air as an arrow is released. Sigyn flinches once, letting loose a nearly inaudible moan of despair between shallow breaths, and he knows it is done.

* * *

Thor cannot remember a time where he ever felt nervous traveling to Midgard. But the circumstances are extraordinary, and the dread he feels gathering in the pit of his stomach as he is pulled through the Bifrost is wholly unfamiliar and unwelcome.

Stark meets him at the landing pad in Stark Tower. “Well, well, well, this is a surprise,” he says. “We just had a group of you guys here not even a week ago. If you’d given us a bit more notice, we might have prepared a fancier reception, Your Majesty.”

“I hadn’t planned to visit any time soon. My duties as king keep my days quite filled on Asgard.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet your new kid does, too. How is little Magnetron? God, I hope you didn’t bring any space-baby germs with you.”

“Magni is doing quite well,” says Thor as they step inside, and considering the nature of this visit, the thought of his son makes him wince. “Being apart from him is difficult; I would not be here now if it was not a matter of great import.”

“Yeah, you look pretty serious, Daniel Craig. Why don’t we get a drink first, okay?”

They make their way to Stark’s private suite. Thor watches him pour his Midgardian spirits into two smaller glasses, noting he pours twice the amount in Thor’s before handing it over. It will still not be enough to dull his senses in the slightest, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

“Speaking of babies, your sister-in-law was a delight as usual when she was here,” says Stark. “Looked just as radiant as always, even enormously knocked up with twins. I gotta ask – is your brother excited about getting a couple more ankle-biters?”

Thor doesn’t need Stark to clarify the unfamiliar term to understand what he’s getting at. He stares at the glass in his hand, wishing desperately that it contained something far stronger. “That is why I’m here, my friend.”

Stark looks at him warily; he puts his glass to his lips and downs the entirety of its contents in one swallow before retrieving the decanter once more. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says, refilling his glass even higher than before.

“There is no easy way to say this,” says Thor, “so I will be forthright. The morning after her return to Asgard, Sigyn awoke to find she had…lost the babies. Twin boys.”

“Well damn,” says Stark. “Damn.” A horrified understanding crosses his face. “Wait, you don’t think…you don’t think anyone _here_ –?”

Thor shakes his head. “I do not. And for what it’s worth, neither does Sigyn.”

“But Loki’s not so convinced. That’s why you’re here.”

Thor nods. “Forgive me, Stark. I gave him my word I would look into it personally. He trusts no one else for the task.”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust anyone at all.”

“He trusts his wife – but, understandably, he must rely on another’s help this time. Until Loki is certain of Midgard’s innocence in this matter and of Sigyn’s safety, she will not be returning to your realm.”

Stark falls back into the chair he’s sitting in, running his hand through his hair and across his neck, and Thor is struck by how old and frail his once vibrant friend has become, a crushing reminder of just how fragile the Midgardians really are.  He looks to Thor, weary but resolute. “What can we do to help?”

* * *

Thor isn’t surprised to learn that Stark has recordings of Sigyn’s time spent on Midgard; what is shocking is the sheer amount of footage he has amassed.

They are sitting in a private meeting room, watching Sigyn’s activities on a monitor. Almost every waking moment of her trip can be accounted for – from the time she set foot out of her appointed quarters in Stark Tower each morning, until she retreated to their relative privacy every night.

“Were there no recording devices in her rooms?” asks Thor.

“Look, I’m just as curious as the next guy about what she looks like under those clothes,” says Stark, “but even I have my limits. No cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms. My guests should be able to expect _some_ level of privacy.”

“Did she have any visitors? Was food brought to her? Anything at all that could have put her at risk?”

It is the crisp, efficient voice of J.A.R.V.I.S. that replies. “I have reviewed the entirety of her stay, Your Majesty. Ambassador Aradottir had no unauthorized guests in her rooms at any point. She requested water and fruit be brought to her the first night, but nothing after. All other meals were eaten in the company of others.”

“I can look into my suppliers, check to see who had access,” says Stark. “But I gotta be honest with you, Thor – if someone wanted to hurt her, why wouldn’t they just take her out? Why would they go through the trouble of inducing a miscarriage that wouldn’t’ve happened until she returned home, if at all? You’d think an assassin would want proof the target’d been eliminated. Hard to know it worked if she’s lightyears away.”

“I don’t disagree. But you must understand my need to gather information.”

“If I may, sir,” interrupts J.A.R.V.I.S., “there is one thing you should see.”

The screen flickers to life once more: a wide shot of the common area of the guest quarters. On the right of the screen, the elevator doors open, and Sigyn and Radi step off. Her arm is looped through his as he leads her to a large sofa, depositing her with care before retrieving a glass of water and sitting next to her.

She takes it from him and raises it to her lips, taking a long drink before setting it aside. She starts to speak, but there is no sound.

“Do you have a recording of what they’re saying?” asks Thor.

The scene goes still for a second; when it resumes, Thor can hear Sigyn’s voice mid-sentence. She sounds exhausted beyond measure.

“– thought they might accomplish by showing me those recordings, Radi. I’ve seen them all before, enough that they are burned into my memory. These Midgardians are all too happy to ensure I am continually reminded of my husband’s offenses, but if they think I could so easily forget Loki’s actions here on Midgard, they are sorely mistaken. No one feels their repercussions more acutely than I do.” She strokes her swollen belly absently, and the sight makes Thor’s heart lurch.

“Next year will be fifteen years since his invasion,” says Radi. “You know how much Midgard loves to relive its more painful anniversaries – gruesomely and extensively.” 

“Ah yes, the fifteenth anniversary of his invasion – and the fourteenth anniversary of his forced assistance in ridding Midgard of the Chitauri threat permanently. Yet they never talk about that. They never show me footage of him fighting _with_ them.”

“Unfortunately,” says Radi, “that is not nearly as politically advantageous for some of them.”

“Yes, easier to keep their constituents riled up with selective memories.” She lets out a mirthless laugh. “But honestly, I’m not so sure Asgard can claim superiority in such matters.”

“I suppose not.”

They sit for a moment in silence. Sigyn puts both hands on her belly, and her face is momentarily clouded with uneasiness and fleetingly, so quickly he nearly misses it, an even more sinister emotion – fear.

“I can’t…I can’t…,” she begins, before letting her words trail off. She looks like she wants to say more, but she leaves the sentence unfinished. “Radi, I need to go home. The sooner the better.”

Radi takes one of her hands in his. “Is everything all right?”

“It will be,” she says with a wan smile. “Would you make the arrangements? I need to rest.”

“Of course.”

As soon as the elevator doors shut behind him, Sigyn leans back into the cushions and stares at some unseen point on the opposite wall. Her eyes slip shut, and at first Thor thinks she is falling asleep. But then her face crumples, and her chest heaves with heavy sobs. She raises a hand to cover her face, but her weeping continues on unabated. It’s such a raw, unguarded moment Thor feels he might as well be watching her bathe for the amount of intimacy in it.

She is muttering something between breaths, something Thor can’t quite hear. He shakes his head. “I can’t understand what she’s saying. Can you make it louder?” he asks. J.A.R.V.I.S. isolates and enhances her voice, and Thor immediately regrets asking.

“Please move,” she says, clutching her distended belly in a past that already seems like a lifetime ago. “Just once. Please…please… _please_.”

“I’ve seen enough,” says Thor. “Turn it off.” The screen goes dark.

“Ambassadors Bjornson and Aradottir left for Asgard two hours later,” says J.A.R.V.I.S. “Nothing unusual happened before their departure.”

The weight of what they’ve seen settles over the room like a heavy blanket, and for once, Stark’s sarcastic humor is entirely absent. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Loki may never be one of my favorite Asgardians, but Sigyn is. You have to know, I do everything in my power to keep her safe when she’s here.”

“I know, my friend. Of that I am certain.”

“Those politicians,” he says, waving derisively at the dark screen, “they may not acknowledge it, but they know what Loki’s done for us, the data and intel he’s provided over the years. They have to maintain an expected public persona to get reelected, but none of them are stupid enough to cause a rift between us and Asgard.”

“I never worried that they would. Convincing my brother, on the other hand – that will be a formidable task indeed.”  

* * *

Loki breathes a sigh of relief; after several restless nights spent waking again and again in a panic, Sigyn has finally agreed to let him use a spell to help her sleep. She’s only consented to a rudimentary spell – nothing so drastic as to render her incapable of awakening if the need arises, but sufficient to keep her thoughts subdued enough for her to truly rest.

Their new bed has not yet been completed and delivered, and as such, they’ve had to move a temporary one in from an unused guest room. It is intolerably small, and as Sigyn burrows herself into the fresh linens and furs, nothing about the scene looks right to Loki.

“You look so tired, my love,” she says, cupping his face in one hand and running her thumb across his cheek. “Promise me you’ll sleep, too.”

“I promise,” he says, kissing the palm of her hand. “After I help you first.”

As lies go, this one is small but startlingly effortless. He has no intention of sleeping if he can do without. Better to stay awake and alert, to plot out his potential revenge – though against whom he isn’t sure.

The instant the incantation is out of his mouth, Sigyn’s eyes slip shut, and the persistent tension in her body seeps away. He pulls the furs to her chin, taking note of the even cadence of her breath that proves she’s not feigning sleep. There’s no worry in her face, and for one peaceful moment, Loki can almost imagine they’re once again at the dawn of their relationship, blissfully unaware of the hardships and heartaches that await them. But then she shifts, her eyebrows momentarily knitting together in distress before relaxing, and the illusion is broken. 

The room has become too small and oppressive in the resultant silence; the atmosphere is rancid with grief, and Loki is desperate for fresh air. Silently, he retreats from the bed and out the door without a clue where he’s going. His only plan is to wander aimlessly until the pervasive dread in his heart dissipates.

He stops at each of his son’s rooms in turn, peeking in to make sure they are safely ensconced in their beds. Eiðr is sprawled out diagonally across his mattress, a hurricane of a child temporarily tamed; only half of his body is covered in sheets and furs. Loki leaves him as he finds him, knowing from experience that if moved, his youngest son will revert back to his current position within minutes.

Ari, in contrast, is the picture of serene comfort. He lies in the exact center of his bed, his head denting the middle of his pillow and his covers draped precisely across his breastbone. For one horrifying moment, he looks like a corpse awaiting immolation on a funeral pyre; Loki has to clutch the doorframe to calm the panic that threatens to choke him.

He waits for the comforting rise and fall of Ari’s chest before he pulls the door shut and leans against the cold surface to catch his breath.

 _A patient and loving wife, forgiving beyond reason, and two exceptional sons to raise with her_ , he thinks. _It was a mistake to want more. Norns help me…to be destroyed by my own greed and arrogance is a fate I am doomed to repeat again and again._

Reluctantly, he pushes away from the door. Just before he can walk away, a small voice stops him.

“Papa? Is that you?”

Loki peers down the darkened hallway to find Eiðr standing just outside his rooms, his bright red hair a tangled crown around his head.

“Yes, it’s me,” says Loki. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I can’t sleep.”

“Well, I suppose that makes two of us,” says Loki, approaching his son and kneeling before him. “What’s keeping you awake?”

“I’m worried about Mama,” says Eiðr, frowning in a way that accentuates the jotun markings on his pale blue face. “I don’t like it when she’s sad.”

“Neither do I. I wish there was something I could do to make it easier for her.”

“Me too.” Eiðr stares at his father, his mouth opening and closing in tiny movements as he debates whether to say more. His youthful curiosity finally gets the better of him. “Are you sad, too?” he asks. There is no accusation in the question, just an innate desire to understand.

 _I have more sadness in me than I could ever adequately explain,_ thinks Loki. _But I will not trouble you with any of it. There is time enough yet in your life for that sort of burden._

“I _am_ sad,” he says instead. He takes Eiðr’s hand in his and leads him back inside his room and into his bed. “The pain will lessen with time, but for now you must be patient with your mother, and with me.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Thank you, my sweet boy.” Loki leans over and kisses his son’s forehead as he pulls the covers up tight around him. “Now get some rest.”

* * *

After leaving Eiðr’s bedside, Loki slips through the palace halls, cloaked in magic to remain undetected by the few staff members awake at this hour.

When he was younger, he loved sneaking around in much the same way. He would steal fresh loaves of bread from the ovens, delighting in the confusion and angry accusations it caused amongst the kitchen workers, and take them to the higher terraces of the palace to feed to the birds.

More than once during these excursions as a boy, he chanced upon lovers – some he knew to be married to other people – hiding amongst the tapestries and alcoves, never the wiser to Loki’s surreptitious observation. These opportunities had provided not only an incredible education in the ways of bodily pleasure, but also a heady rush when Loki realized he could use his newfound knowledge to destroy these unsuspecting souls on a whim. Choosing to take pity on them and keep their secrets had been one of the few things that had given him an intoxicating sense of power, something he felt eluded him in every other aspect of his life. 

But this night, all that power is gone, and he is left utterly helpless. The lives of these people continue on without pause; he wants them to despair as he does, but they are oblivious. _Oh, to be as wonderfully ignorant. I would almost welcome exchanging my life for such a menial and insignificant existence, even temporarily, if it would bring me the smallest comfort._

He walks for hours, exhausting himself until his mind settles on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. Just before dawn, he finds himself back at his chamber doors with no memory of how he got there. He lets himself in silently; Sigyn is still asleep, the early morning light falling across her calm features. She doesn’t appear to have moved at all, and a pang of irrational jealousy surges through him at how rested she will be when she awakens.

He bathes in the washroom, every movement mechanical and methodical. When he comes out, a note has been slipped under the door. He would have heard if someone had knocked; the palace pages have clearly been instructed to not disturb them unless absolutely necessary.

Loki recognizes Thor’s blocky scrawl before he even reads the contents. The note is characteristically blunt.

_I’ve returned from Midgard, brother. Meet with me after breakfast, and we will discuss my findings._

Breakfast won’t be over for at least another hour, but Loki has no intention of waiting. He casts one last glance at his wife before he vanishes.

* * *

Thor has just sat down for his morning meal when Loki materializes seemingly out of nowhere. Accustomed to such displays after so many years, Thor hardly reacts. “Sit, brother,” he says, waving toward the chair opposite him.

Loki remains where he is, hovering next to the table as though ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. His eyes are sunken, his face gaunt and pale. Even his clothes look too big for him. “What did they say, Thor?” he asks, his voice as thin as his body.

“You need to eat,” says Thor, throwing a rasher of bacon and a few slices of bread on a plate before cautiously pushing it in Loki’s direction. “You need to maintain your strength.”

“Why?” asks Loki as he comes closer; he glances at the food but makes no move to sit. “Are we to be waging war soon?”

“There’s no need for war, brother.”

Loki’s lip curls up in a parody of a smile, a smile that gets nowhere near his eyes, and it renders his already intimidating countenance even more frightening. It’s a look Thor has seen before, one that might lure a less knowledgeable person into complacency. But Thor knows Loki well, and he knows this particular smile promises not good humor to the recipient, but painful and lengthy destruction.

“I suppose your _friends_ convinced you of their innocence, _”_ says Loki. “How unsurprising.”

“They didn’t need to convince me of anything, Loki. I love the people of Midgard, but you know I would never choose them over you.”

“No. I _don’t_ know that.”

Thor’s appetite has vanished; he shoves his plate away and leans back into his chair. “If a human had done something to cause this, you and I would not be having this conversation right now. I would be in possession of those responsible and I would do nothing to stop you from punishing them, in whatever manner you felt appropriate.”

Loki looks down at him, imperiously mocking. “Would you? Truly?”

“You trusted me to look into the matter, which I did. Despite what you might think, my investigation was fair and thorough, and it yielded no evidence of any wrongdoing. What happened was terrible, but Midgard had nothing to do with it.”

“And what choice have I but to believe you? Unless you send me there for my own investigation, of course. My methods may not be as fair as yours…but they are _far_ more thorough.”

“Is that what you wish for me to do? Send you to Midgard so that you may find a suitable target for your otherwise directionless rage?”

“Someone has to _pay_ –”

“Pay for what? No crime was committed. If you cling to your anger, Loki – no matter how justified it might be – it will only impede your recovery.”

Loki seems to consider these words for a moment before he levels Thor with a sidelong look. “I don’t need the Bifrost, you know. I have other ways of getting where I need to go.”

“I know. But you won’t.”

Loki huffs out a bitter laugh. “What makes you so sure?”

“You wouldn’t undermine Sigyn’s diplomatic efforts on Midgard. Not without absolute proof.” Thor speaks with a conviction he doesn’t truly feel, but his words have the desired effect.

Loki’s shoulders slump the tiniest amount and the fire in his eyes dims. He places his hands on the flat of the table and leans forward on his arms, tucking his chin into his chest, every muscle in his upper body rigid as stone. He is fighting to hold onto his self-control, but just as Thor thinks he’s won the battle, Loki grabs the plate of food Thor had offered him and shatters it against a far wall with a visceral roar.

Thor is on his feet at once, his hand poised to retrieve Mjolnir if need be, but Loki raises his palms to him in a gesture of surrender, not looking Thor in the eyes but staring instead at the floor. When Thor makes no move to come closer, Loki lowers his hands, running them down the front of his tunic to smooth the fabric. With his customary preternatural grace, he spins on his heels and leaves without another word.

* * *

“Someone has to pay…someone has to pay…someone has to _pay_ —”

Loki mumbles the words under his breath as he stalks through the corridors. He’s trying to block out the incessant thoughts in his head, the thoughts that pick at his brain like the beak of a carrion bird.

 _Not Midgard’s fault…that leaves only one explanation, you filthy monster. It’s you, it’s always been you, you vile creature, you selfish villain, you useless_ jotun bastard _. Loki the Unworthy. It’s the only title you ever truly earned. It’s all you are, all you’ll ever be._

There are more and more palace workers going about their daily business; he only senses their presence enough to avoid barreling over any of them in his haste. To their credit, they all give him a wide berth, likely fearing grave bodily injury if they get too close.

He’s not fully aware of where he’s going until he comes to the heavy dungeon doors. He pauses only briefly before entering and going directly to the cell he used to call home.

There aren’t adequate words to describe what’s in his old cell anymore. What once was a complete and undamaged being is now no more than clumps of tissue and bone, held together by sheer force of will and magic, with only the barest hint of life to sustain it. Loki had called him _the_ _Other_ long ago…the once captor, now captive. For nearly fourteen years, he has been the single greatest experiment Loki has ever undertaken, an invaluable source of information for Asgard and Midgard alike in all manners of torture and their effectiveness.

Sigyn would be horrified if she knew. She incorrectly presumed the creature was killed and disposed of soon after he was brought to Asgard, and Loki has worked tirelessly to not dissuade that assumption. She will find out the truth one day, Loki is certain, and he can only hope when she does, she will be able to forgive him his part in the atrocity.

Loki stares through the glass; it could just be his imagination, but he thinks he sees the creature tense up at his presence, even though the Other no longer has eyes with which to see him, or ears to hear him. 

 _It seems our fun has come to an end, you fucking insect_ , Loki thinks. _I would keep this up indefinitely, to my great pleasure, but I cannot allow you another moment of existence in a universe that took my sons from me. Someone has to pay…it might as well be you._

He conjures a knife into his hand and lets himself into the cell.

Hours later as he is leaving, he stops a guard near the entrance, pretending not to notice as the man takes in his gore-splattered form in shock. “The dungeon has a vacancy,” says Loki darkly. “I suggest you prepare the cell on the end for its next prisoner. If I were you, I would take something to breathe through; the stench is rather overpowering. You might want to gather others to help – the prior tenant left quite a mess behind.”

The guard nods emphatically. “Right away, Your Highness.” He starts to hurry off when Loki stops him for one last bit of instruction.

“Whatever remains you are able to gather…take them to the stables and feed them to the hogs.”

* * *

The rumors begin not long after. Even the king is not immune to the incessant gossip; he has heard the housemaids talk amongst themselves, even when they think they are being discreet.

Rumors that Prince Loki is more unpredictable than ever. That his behavior is once again erratic and dangerous. That he is taking unnecessary risks with his own life, spending hours alone in the wilds of Asgard, hunting the most dangerous creatures in the realm with no thought to his own safety. That he and his wife are never seen together anymore.

Thor dismisses most of the talk as ridiculous and uninformed. He maintains a ritual of eating dinner with his entire family at least three times a week, and Loki and Sigyn are always there together with their boys. Loki never bears injuries of a sort that would be worrisome, nor does he act particularly troubled or inattentive to his wife. They may not spend the meal sitting next to one another and holding hands or staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, but that’s not out of the ordinary; Loki has never been one for intense displays of public affection.

Thor tells himself he would certainly know if there were real reasons to be concerned, that the growing unease he feels comes from his duties as king and nothing more. The ceaseless talk around the palace has caused him to imagine problems where there aren’t any; it will subside eventually, and take all of his negative thoughts with it.

After a while, he almost believes it. 

* * *

The entire family is having dinner together a few months later, waiting for dessert to arrive, when Loki abruptly excuses himself, mumbling a vague excuse that Thor doesn’t quite catch. When Eiðr attempts to follow him, Loki rebukes him harshly; chastened, the young boy scurries back to his mother, valiantly attempting to hide his disappointment and his tears.

Sigyn comforts him the best she can. “He’s not angry with you, darling. He’s had a lot on his mind lately. He’ll want to spend time with you tomorrow, I’m sure of it.” When Thor catches her eye, questioning her silently, she responds with the tiniest shake of her head and a forced smile.

He intends to pull her aside after the meal and ask her about Loki’s behavior, but she comes to him first, approaching him as the last of the dishes are being carried away.

“Thor, may I have a moment?” she asks, glancing quickly at the rest of the room’s occupants. “In private?”

“Of course.”

Sif retreats with Magni, and Frigga ushers Ari and Eiðr away with promises of extra treats from the kitchens if they come quickly. Sigyn follows Thor out onto the balcony overlooking the city and they make their way to the balustrade.

Thor’s already restrictive armor feels like a vice in the thick evening air, and he has to fight the urge to claw it off his body. He fists his hands and leans onto the railing. “What is it you wish to discuss, Sigyn? Is it my brother?”

She nods apologetically. “Forgive me, Thor. I have no one else I trust enough to ask about this; no one else knows Loki’s mind as you do.”

“I’m not sure anyone fully knows Loki’s mind, Sigyn. Not you, not me…Norns, probably not even Loki himself.”

“But he confides in you as he does no other. You would know the answer to my question.”

“And what question is that, dear sister?”

“I wish to know if Loki has,” she starts, and then pauses for a long while to screw up her courage. With a shake of her head, she spits out the rest of her words like she can’t rid herself of them fast enough. “Has he taken a lover?”

Thor recoils in genuine surprise; this is the last thing he expected her to say. “What?”

“Is my husband keeping a lover?” she asks again, enunciating each word slowly, her voice taking on an uncharacteristically bitter edge.

“No,” says Thor with a vehemence and conviction that surprises even him. “Not to my knowledge. Though why you would think he would tell _me_ if he was is beyond me. You must know I would never aid him in a deception like that.”

“He’s been your brother far longer than I’ve been his wife,” she says with a rueful smile. “If there is anyone he would trust to discretion, it would be you.”

“You must believe me, Sigyn. Loki is many things – not all of them pleasant – but he is no philanderer. He wouldn’t betray you in that way.”

“But he would betray me in other ways?”

“You know that isn’t what I meant.” He turns to face Sigyn completely, leveling an intensely inquisitive look at her. “Has he done something to make you question his loyalty to you?”

“It’s more what he _hasn’t_ done,” she says, and when she takes a deep breath something rattles low in her chest, the last gasp of a wounded and dying animal. “He hasn’t touched me once since I lost the babies,” she blurts out. “Not a single time in over four months.” It is an oddly blunt confession for her, and her face flushes with embarrassment. “Forgive me, I should not have told you that. My intimacies with your brother are a matter beyond the scope of your concern as king.”

“But this isn’t a conversation between a king and one of his subjects,” says Thor. “We are family, and my family’s happiness is of paramount importance to me. That includes Loki, you, and your children. What can I do to help?”

She thinks for a moment before answering. “Tell me, what is the protocol for a royal divorce? I would like to know what to expect when Loki asks for one.”

Thor scowls at her. “That isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Will I be banished? Have my two _living_ children taken from me?” Her eyes are wide with worry. “I couldn’t bear it, Thor. I wouldn’t survive.”

“Enough of that. None of those things is going to come to pass –”

“I’m not so sure you’re right,” she says, cutting him short. “He comes to bed only after I am asleep, and he’s always gone before I wake. I wouldn’t even know he’d been there at all if it weren’t for the wall of pillows dissecting the center of our bed every morning. I move them, but they’re always returned to the same position, night after night without fail. But as hurtful as it is, I am grateful for their presence. The day they aren’t moved I’ll know he has decided to not come back at all.”

As implausible as Thor wants this story to be, he knows Sigyn is telling the truth, and he could kick himself for not seeing it sooner. But despite everything, Thor cannot bring himself to think his brother past hope. “Loki will always return to you, Sigyn. He loves you far too much to be without you.”

“I don’t doubt he loves me, but I’m not sure that’s enough this time. He desires vengeance for the death of our children, but he has no outside force to blame.” She looks out over the peaceful expanse of Asgard and sighs dejectedly. “He’s turned his anger inward…but in doing so, _I_ am the one being punished.”

“I went to Midgard after the funeral, at his insistence, to determine if anything had happened to you there to cause you to lose the babies. I found no evidence that they did, but it brought Loki no comfort.”

“You know, I wish he’d had the courage to ask me instead,” she says, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. “I could have told him myself, with complete certainty, that my traveling to Midgard had nothing to do with it.”

Thor thinks back to the recording he’d been shown of her in Stark Tower, and he wonders again, as he has so many times since, just how much she knew before she returned to Asgard. He doesn’t wish to be tactless, but she has provided him too good an opportunity for answers. He chooses his questions carefully. “Sigyn, were there signs? Before you came home?”

She looks at him for a moment, as if trying to ascertain what knowledge he already holds, and how much she wants to reveal. She finally settles for a nod, so small it’s nearly imperceptible. “Their movements were sporadic and weak before I even left Asgard,” she says. “I told myself it was stress, or that I just hadn’t been paying close enough attention. I thought I felt them one last time after I arrived in Midgard, but I think now that it was only my mind playing tricks on me.” She puts her elbows on the balustrade and rests her head in her hands; when she looks up again, there are tears on her cheeks.

“I wanted to tell him when I got back,” she says, and Thor doesn’t have to ask who she’s talking about. “I _intended_ to tell him, but I lost my nerve. Of course, by the next morning, it was too late.”

“Why didn’t you see the healer, just to be sure?” The moment he asks he fears he has gone too far, that this question is too insensitive, but there is no hesitation in her answer.

“That is a question I will be asking myself for the rest of my life, Thor. I didn’t want to believe the worst was even a possibility. Problems you don’t acknowledge don’t exist, right?” She smiles when she says it, a humorless smile that fades as quickly as it comes. “But in hindsight, I do wonder if she could have helped had I gone to her sooner.” She shrugs. “Perhaps not. Perhaps it was always a foregone conclusion. But if I think on what _could_ have happened for too long, I fear my guilt would consume me.”

She wipes the last of her tears with the back of her hand and looks back to him with a weary smile. “Thank you for your help.”

“I haven’t done much,” Thor says, confused.

“You’ve eased my mind a bit, and that’s enough.” She opens her mouth as if to say more, but seems to reconsider; she settles for a small smile instead. “I should go. Your mother has likely given my boys enough treats to last an entire week by now.” She squeezes his hand affectionately. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Sigyn.”

As Thor watches her leave, a white-hot burst of anger toward his brother flares up in him. Sigyn has suffered as great a loss as Loki, and in repayment he has pushed her away – one of the few beings in the Nine Realms who loves and accepts him as he is, despite his numerous flaws.

Thor thinks Loki’s head should be reacquainted with the therapeutic properties of Mjolnir, and he is prepared to make exactly that happen when an even better idea occurs to him.

There is one other in Asgard whose advice Loki would be hard pressed to ignore. Those who intend to win battles use the finest weapons at their disposal – and in this fight, Thor knows exactly the one to use.

* * *

“I thought I might find you here.”

Loki throws the breadcrumbs in his hand across the terrace surface and into the fading daylight. “Mother,” he says, “I really expected a scolding from you long before now. I assume my actions at dinner tonight were finally enough to warrant a reprimand from you.”

He watches from his perch on a low wall as the gathered evening birds fight over the choicest morsels. When Frigga walks into his line of sight, the look of maternal disappointment she gives him erases a thousand years off his age; he is once again no more than a small boy who has displeased his mother. 

“Is that an acknowledgement that your behavior is of a sort that needs reprimanding?” she asks.

“Hasn’t it always been?”

“Not for the majority of your life. But this most recent conduct of yours is unacceptable, Loki. I worry for you. Your brother –“

“Is this _his_ doing?” Loki interjects, his words filled with venom. “Did _he_ send you to put me in my place?”

“He worries for you, just as we all do.”

Loki scoffs. “If his concerns are so great, then why didn’t the king come to speak to me himself? I suppose it _is_ difficult – finding time for your wayward little brother when you have a beautifully healthy, perfectly _living_ baby son to dote upon.”

“And what of _your_ two beautifully healthy, perfectly living sons?” retorts Frigga. “Have you forgotten them?”

“Of _course_ not,” Loki bites out. “But it should be _four_ , not two.”

“And yet it remains only two,” she says softly. “But Loki, if you continue to let your anger, your frustration, your disappointment rule you, then soon you will no longer have even them...nor the woman who bore them for you.”

“And what do you know of that?” he asks cautiously. “Has Sigyn expressed such intentions to you?”

“Not in so many words. But she grows weary of your deliberate isolation from her. She wonders if you wish for that isolation to be permanent.”

He looks away, picking at a rough spot on the palm of his hand. “No, I don’t wish for that. But…”

“But what?” asks Frigga. She sits next to him on the wall and reaches to put a soothing hand on his arm. “Loki, what are you doing?”

He still can’t look at her directly; he feels the heat creeping into his face, and he knows tears are close to falling. His mother has ever had a way of bringing his pent up emotions to the surface, a gift he finds as maddening as it is comforting. It calls to mind the only other woman who has ever demonstrated the same talent, and his heart constricts in his chest.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to explain himself, and even as the words leave his mouth he recognizes how irrational they sound. “If I separate myself from her, I won’t be tempted to touch her. And if I don’t touch her, then this can never happen again.”

“I see,” says Frigga, more than a little condescendingly. “So, you would deny Sigyn her greatest source of comfort in her greatest time of need – because of your own selfish motives?”

Loki jumps to his feet to put a little distance between the two of them. “Can’t you understand?” he shouts. “I’m not being _selfish_! I’m trying to _protect_ her!”

Frigga doesn’t even blink at his outburst. “And in doing so, you are robbing her of any chance at true happiness.”

He wants to stay angry, but all the fight in him rapidly dissipates and his shoulders slump; he’s not felt this defeated since his attempt to rule Midgard had so spectacularly failed. “Trust me, Mother – had I the ability to provide Sigyn true happiness, I would have done so long ago. She is a fool to believe I ever could.”

“And _you_ are a fool to believe you couldn’t.”

He petulantly kicks at the remaining breadcrumbs, sending them and the birds scattering.

“Sigyn needs you now more than ever,” says Frigga. “Believe me, I know.”

“And what would you know of Sigyn’s needs, Mother?” he says, whirling on her. “How do you know she wouldn’t just rather be rid of me for good?”

“Because I have been where she is, Loki. Have you ever asked yourself why you have no siblings other than Thor?”

Truthfully, he hadn’t. One brother had been more than enough for him growing up, but the implication of her words makes his mouth go dry. He shakes his head and hopes she stops there; he doesn’t want to hear any more.

Of course, despite his wishes, she continues. “When Thor was still very small, about three or so, he was unbearably rambunctious. Never sat still for a moment as long as there was light in the sky.” Her face goes soft with the memory, and Loki is struck by how beautiful she still is. “Your father and I decided a sibling might help calm him.”

Loki looks away and tries to drown out her voice, but she talks on.

“I was about six months along when I lost the baby, and along with him, any chance I had at conceiving again. We named him Balder, buried him swiftly and quietly, and never spoke of him again.”

A surge of anger bubbles up in Loki’s heart at Odin’s cruelty, and he wants to scream at his mother for allowing him to treat her that way, but the horrifying realization that he’s doing precisely the same thing to Sigyn himself kills his righteous indignation like water poured over a flame.

He understands now what his mother is doing: holding a mirror to his own actions and blinding him with the truth of them. The image staring back at him is not the loving husband and father he has tried so hard to become, but instead a sobering reflection of the man who called him son – _Odin_ , the one man Loki has sworn to surpass in every area of his life, an undertaking Loki is finding far more difficult to accomplish than he’d hoped it would be.   

Frigga rises from her seat and approaches him slowly. “A few years after Balder’s death, word reached us that Jotunheim was gathering its forces to raid the other realms. Of course, Asgard could not let such an action go unchallenged, and so we began our own preparations.” She is so close now, and as she reaches out and touches Loki’s face he has to fight to not flinch away. “I never dreamed that through such terrible circumstances, I would have one last chance to be a mother.”

He can’t hold his tongue at the unwelcome reminder of his true heritage. “Mother to a monster so worthless even his own people abandoned him to die. It must have been quite the dream come true for you.”

She is unfazed by his animosity. “I’ve loved you with my whole heart from the very moment you were placed in my arms,” she says. “You are not worthless, nor have you ever been a monster. You are hurting, and that kind of hurt can make any of us behave in ways that are less than pleasant. It doesn’t mean the kindness and gentleness I _know_ you possess are gone – just well hidden.” 

She turns her wrist, and her open hand begins to shimmer and glow. When the light fades away, she is holding a white feather between her fingers, the edges of it darkened with age.

He takes a step back and shakes his head. “You kept it? All this time?”

“You didn’t want to remember,” she says. “But I did. And when times were bleak, when I truly worried that you were beyond the help we could provide, I would look at this feather and be reminded of the little boy you once were – the sensitive, thoughtful, loving boy who saw the good in everything.” She takes his hand and places the feather in his palm, closing his fingers over it. “Perhaps now _you_ can be reminded of the good in yourself.”

He drops his head. “I am no better than Odin.”

“I knew the man I married. I knew what he was and was not capable of providing for me.” She puts her hand beneath his chin and raises his head. “But I also know I did not raise you to be that man, Loki.”

He blinks once, twice, three times…and then he collapses forward, his head on her shoulder, the tears flowing freely and his body trembling with sobs as she puts her arms around him. He manages a few words between shaky breaths: “What if it’s too late?”

“It never is,” she says, rubbing his back and allowing him to cry until he is spent. “Not until the last breath leaves your body.”  

* * *

Loki stands outside the doors to his chambers and rolls the root of the feather between his fingers, and the shape of it blurs as it twists around and around. _There is good in you still,_ he thinks as he tucks the feather into his pocket and reaches for the handle _. You must believe it._

Sigyn is curled up under a blanket in her favorite chair by the fire, her feet tucked up beside her, her elbow on the armrest and her head propped in her hand. At first she appears to be reading, but when she doesn’t react to his presence, he realizes she’s fallen asleep.

Her braided hair has fallen over her shoulder, the tail of it lying across the book in her lap like an impromptu bookmark. As he comes closer, he recognizes the book as the collection of poems he gave her for her birthday many years ago – the first birthday she’d celebrated with him after beginning their relationship. He’d agonized over what to give her; he’d wanted his gift to be no less than perfect, something to show her how much he’d grown to love her in so short an amount of time. And as she’d thanked him for his gift that evening with her words and her body, he’d known innately that he’d chosen well – not just in the book, but also in her as a companion.

 _Yet you’ve gone out of your way again and again to ruin it all,_ says the ceaseless voice in his head. _Let’s see if this time you’ve finally succeeded._

He goes to one knee before her and whispers her name, his voice barely more than a murmur so she won’t be startled.

Her eyes blink open and she raises her head, but says nothing. She looks at him directly, but the emptiness in her eyes is unnerving; it’s almost as though she’s looking right through him. Slowly, she reaches out to him, and the instant her fingers touch his chest her eyes go wide.

“I’m not dreaming you?” she asks with a gasp, placing the flat of her palm against his chest.

He puts his hand over hers and weaves their fingers together. “No, beloved. I’m really here.”

The innocent disbelief in her face turns to a scowl, and she pulls her hand back. “Why now? You’ve been avoiding me for _months_. Why are you here _now_?”

What he’d hoped would be an easy conversation of simple apologies is quickly revealing itself to be far more complicated. He doesn’t know why he presumed it wouldn’t be; nothing about his relationship with Sigyn has ever been easy or simple.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Sigyn,” he says, and he’s never in his life been more sincere. “I needed time –“

“And _I_ needed _you_. And yet, once again, _your_ needs took priority.”

He makes no attempt to defend himself. “Yes. And it’s been quite clearly pointed out to me that it wasn’t the best course of action.”

“By whom?”

“My mother.”

Sigyn looks at him mockingly. “So, you will listen to her…but not me? Well then, maybe _she_ should be here now. _She_ could tell you all the things I’ve wanted to say to you.”

“No, no. Whatever you wish to say, no matter how hurtful it might be to my ears, I want to hear it from your lips.”

She blinks at him, bemused. “You think I wish to be hurtful?”

“I think you’ve more than earned the right to be.”

“I don’t disagree. But having the right to do something doesn’t make it the best choice, Loki. I should think you of all people would have learned that lesson by now.”

She closes the book in her lap and places it on the table next to her as she stands up, and he fully expects her to walk away without another word. But she goes to the fire instead, holding herself with one arm and rubbing her knuckles across her bottom lip as she watches the flames; the light and shadows play across her features and make her look impossibly young and unbearably sad. He lifts himself from the floor and onto the sofa, never taking his eyes off her, and waits.

After a time, she takes a deep breath. “I could hear you that morning, you know,” she says. “In the corridor. You were so _distraught_. Even in my pain, I wanted nothing more than to go to you and hold you and comfort you and tell you everything was going to be all right.” She looks back at him, and he wants to squirm for the scrutiny in her eyes. “But, of course I couldn’t,” she says. “And in that moment, I felt as though I had failed you completely as a wife, as a partner, as the mother of your children – and you haven’t done a single thing since to convince me otherwise.”

Stabbing him through the heart would be less painful than hearing this. He shakes his head. “ _You_ haven’t failed –“

“Do you know the worst part?” she interrupts. “The one thing you said that has haunted me every day since? You asked Thor what loving you has ever done for me.”

He grimaces. “And what _has_ it done?” he asks, not entirely sure he really wants to know her answer.

“Quite a lot, actually,” she says as she comes closer and settles in next to him on the sofa. She isn’t quite close enough to touch, and the space between them feels as though it holds every ghost and unspoken conversation he’s been desperately trying to avoid.

“Loving you has brought me sorrow and more tears than I would ever care to count,” she says, and her gaze almost dares him to look away. “Disappointment so severe I thought my heart would give out from it, and anger so great I’m certain I could have legitimately killed you many times over and still come out the more sympathetic party.”

Of this he has no doubt. “It would be no more than I deserved. But, I’m thankful you haven’t.”

“The day isn’t over yet.”

Before he can contemplate how much danger he’s truly in, her face softens and she continues.

“But loving you has also brought me laughter in such abundance it makes my sides ache. Joy so intense it causes me to feel as though I’m lit from within. Pleasure beyond my most fevered imaginings. Every emotion I’m capable of feeling is heightened tenfold with you. What you and I have together…it’s not a subtle thing.”

He can’t help but smile at that. “It certainly isn’t.”  

“But I’m glad for it. Because above everything else, loving you has brought me four beautiful sons – two of whom will grow to be fine, _strong_ men, worthy of your name…and two of whom will be waiting to welcome us into Valhalla if the fates have even the tiniest slip of mercy. Don’t abandon those who remain for those who do not.” 

“I don’t wish to.”

“Narfi and Váli –”

Loki lets out a hiss of displeasure before he can stop himself.

“Refusing to say their names doesn’t erase their memories, Loki.” She takes a breath and starts again. “They were _potential_ , they were _possibility_ never to come to fruition. And the grief we have for what can never come to pass is immeasurable. But you, my husband, are _real_ ,” she says, reaching to take his hand in hers. “You exist, not as an abstract, but as a living, breathing, vital part of my life – and your retreat from me is in some ways more unbearable than the loss of our twins.”

Loki thinks of his mother, of the way she was left alone to deal with the grief of a similar loss by a husband who should have been there for her, and he has to fight a fresh wave of revulsion and self-loathing. Odin has been dead for years, but the shadow he still casts over Loki’s life is so great, Loki fears no amount of sun will ever be enough to lift it.

But Sigyn…Ari…Eiðr. _They_ could be more than enough, if he would only allow them to be.

“So have I?” she asks, not unkindly. At his look of confusion, she clarifies. “Have I failed you?”

His answer is sure and immediate. “Absolutely not,” he says. “I never wanted to hurt you, beloved. You must believe me. I’ve only ever wanted to keep you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe, Loki. I only need you to keep me company and keep me happy.” She shrugs and smiles. “And maybe keep me in the finest jewels and dresses you can provide.”

The last of the tension in the room is lifted by this simple jest, and Loki laughs with relief. “You need only ask, and it’s yours. Anything at all. There’s nothing in the Nine Realms beyond my reach if you desire it.”

She takes both of his hands and clutches them to her chest, and the contact he has deprived himself of for so long makes his head swim. “Right now, the only thing I desire is to be held in your arms, and to hold you in mine, and to not be afraid I’ve lost you forever.” 

In answer, he kisses her soundly and profusely, and the softness of her lips and the taste of her mouth and the scent of her skin fill his senses. He has foolishly tried to separate his existence from hers, forgetting in his determination the pointlessness of such an endeavor; Sigyn is more a part of him than he could ever hope to articulate, so intricately interwoven into the very fabric of his being any attempt to remove her would only succeed in destroying him.

She breaks from him and leads him to the bed, and though it’s far too soon for anything more, they lie together side by side and skin to skin, their legs intertwined and her head resting on his chest, talking late into the night until they exhaust themselves…and Loki can at last feel the festering wound he’s been obstinately keeping open for months begin to close and heal.

The pillows on their bed do not need to be moved come morning.

* * *

When Loki is actually present at breakfast for the first time in weeks, Ari is almost comically surprised, but quick to embrace his father in delight. Eiðr, on the other hand, stubbornly refuses to look at him, sullenly picking at his food and pointedly ignoring him when Loki tries to engage him in conversation.

After the meal, Sigyn and Ari leave to prepare for their day; but when Eiðr tries to join them, Loki asks him to stay behind. He frowns at his father and throws himself back into his chair, his arms crossed over his chest like armor.

They sit in silence, Eiðr’s occasional huffs of irritation the only sounds in the room.

“You’re angry with me,” Loki says eventually, when the quiet becomes too much to stand.

Eiðr flicks his gaze to Loki for only a second before staring at the table once more. “You were mean to me,” he says, and Loki can’t help but admire his indignation. He would never have had the courage to show the same to his father when he was Eiðr’s age.

Loki rises from his seat and makes his way around the table to kneel next to Eiðr’s chair. “You know, your face is going to stick like that if you keep pouting,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

“Good. Then you’ll always know how mad I am.”

 _Norns but you are your mother’s son._ Loki reaches out and turns Eiðr’s head to face him. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the wrinkles in his son’s forehead are reduced by the tiniest of margins. “I truly am. Can you forgive me?”

He waits patiently for an answer, and after several long seconds Eiðr nods his head.

“Are you still sad about the babies, Papa?” he asks.

“Yes, my sweet boy, but I’m getting better. Thank you for tolerating me.”

Without warning, Eiðr throws his arms around Loki’s neck, and Loki feels a burden lift from his heart. Sigyn’s words from the night before ring in his head: _Don’t abandon those who remain for those who do not._

He kisses the top of his son’s head and hugs him tightly before pulling away. “Do you have lessons this morning?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Loki looks around conspiratorially. “Well, don’t tell your mother, but I propose you skip them and spend the day with me instead.”

Eiðr’s grin is wide and his nod is so enthusiastic Loki fears he might shake his head right off his neck.

“Excellent,” says Loki. “I know just what we can do. We’ll go steal some bread from the kitchens, take it to the highest terrace…and I can show you how to feed the birds.”


End file.
